


I will not falter

by AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst



Series: Keeping promises - Darkest timeline [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Abusive Relationships, Angst, Darkest Timeline, Infanticide, Keeping promises AU, Non-Graphic Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, lots and lots of angst, murder threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-27 18:05:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst/pseuds/AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst
Summary: I was hit by a wave of angst, and so I asked for some angsty prompts over on my tumblr anunhealthydoseofangst. It quickly ended up being a muuuuuch more angsty version of Keeping promises.Here's the first part of what I now call Keeping promises - Darkest timeline.BEWARE OF THE TAGS!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Keeping promises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9490925) by [AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst/pseuds/AnUnhealthyDoseOfAngst). 



> Prompt, sent in by anon: Ivar and his wife have a child that is like him. He can't stand it and either beats his wife blaming her, or kills the baby.
> 
>  
> 
> Please note that for all of my works that have sexual content, all relevant characters are at least 18 years old. If they are not yet 18 in canon, I age them up.

Ivar can tell what the baby is just by looking at Frigga’s face as she steps outside the room where Ylva is recovering from giving birth. The old servant nearly jumps at the sight of him sitting in the corridor. He knew it would end up like this. How could it ever be any different? Frigga tries to speak to him but he’s already crawling away, not even bothering with seeing how Ylva is doing. Speaking to his wife will only make things more difficult and forming a bond with the child would be nothing short of idiocy. He’s not going to repeat his father’s mistake. It takes him just under an hour to gather half a dozen of men that he trusts. No women for this mission, he think to himself. Their motherly instincts could very well ruin it. The women freeze as Agmundr slams the door open and pushes inside the room, closely followed by the remaining warriors and Ivar. Helga and Frigga back towards the bed, shielding Ylva. Ivar ignores the sting in his chest at the sight of the frightened women. His crutch leaves scrape marks as he turns to face Blaeja where she stands over by the table, in the process of swaddling the crying baby in a clean blanket. He keeps his eyes on her to avoid seeing the twisted legs of his and Ylva’s baby boy. The queen’s hands are shaking, knuckles white. Ivar takes another step forward. Blaeja breaks away from his gaze, hurriedly scooping up the baby and stumbling backwards into the corner. Ivar’s words come out in a growl.

“Don’t be stupid, your grace.” Behind him, Ylva speaks up in a sob and Ivar automatically turns to look at her.

“No,” She’s shaking her head violently “Ivar. Stop it.” Quick footsteps sound next to Ivar as Blaeja tries to rush past him, only for Gunnarr to block the queen’s way. Ivar stalks even closer, shaking his head in disappointment. He traps Blaeja between himself and the wall.

“If you don’t give him to me,” He speaks slowly “I’ll cut out the one that’s growing inside your womb.” Ylva starts to cry as Ivar raises his knife to point at the small swell that’s barely noticeable under the queen’s dress. He can see that Blaeja is trying to come up with something to say, probably something about how he surely wouldn’t kill his own brother’s baby. But she knows that he would. He is, after all, trying to kill his own child. Ivar can see the exact moment her fighting spirit dies out. She slumps against the wall.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Blaeja sobs, eyes closed in defeat. Ylva is screaming now, loud enough to drown out the discontent noises of the child as Blaeja holds the boy out to his father. Ivar uses his free arm to secure his son against his chest. One tiny foot is poking out of the unfinished swaddling and the queen reaches for a corner of the blanket in an attempt to adjust it.

“There’s no point in that.” Ivar snaps, making her back away again. Over by the bed, Frigga rushes forward only to be knocked unconscious by Hákon. The broad shouldered warrior shoves her body to the side. Ivar drags his feet across the room until he’s standing in front of the wildly thrashing Ylva. She pauses for a moment when he smiles at her.

“I will come back, wife,” Ivar says, voice suddenly soft “We can talk then. I’ll help you bathe.” Ylva’s eyes widen. Then suddenly she lunges forward, making another attempt at reaching her son, but Agmundr stops her with an iron grip on her shoulders. Hard enough for Ivar to glare at the warrior. He feels as if his mind is surrounded by a heavy fog. Everything moves so slowly, seems so far away. She will understand, Ivar tells himself. She just needs some time to adjust to not being a mother.

“Hjálmarr, you come with me and make sure no one intervenes. Make sure my wife stays in bed and rests, Agmundr.” The men does as he commands and Ivar shuffles out into the corridor. He doesn’t register the cacophony of curses and pleas coming from behind him, is far too focused on his goal. They don’t meet any obstacles on the way, there’s only a servant or two and they know better than to stop him. It’s cold outside but Ivar doesn’t notice it. The boy is still crying when Ivar stops next to an uneven rock. He grunts for Hjálmarr to keep an eye out then sets the boy down on the stone. The axe feels strange in his hand. Ivar knows that this is where his father faltered, that he took him to the forest but couldn’t bring himself to strike with his axe. Ivar knows that he has to be stronger than that. He raises the axe, the drumming in his ear drowning out everything else. The sooner it is over, the sooner he can go back to Ylva and help her move on. He brings the axe down. The crying stops.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Self-harm through disordered eating. Non-con fingering. Vaginal rape.
> 
> Ivar feeds her, but it's not really forced feeding? It's kind of in a grey zone, I'd say. Let me know if you want me to update the tags.

Ylva sits by his side, staring straight ahead. She wanted to stay in their room but Ivar didn’t like her saying that. He didn’t like that at all. Ivar raises his cup in a toast to the earls he’s made a deal with. She hopes he won’t notice her untouched stew but of course he does. As soon as his cup thuds against the table Ivar turns to look at her, his forehead in deep lines.

“Eat.” He murmurs. His voice is meant to be calming, soft like a feather, just like the palm that he’s running along her leg. That only makes her feel worse. Ylva reaches for the spoon and she tries to will her hand not to tremble. The first spoonful she manages to get down only by sheer force of will but the second one is dangerously close to spilling on her dress. She sniffles, setting the spoon back down. Ivar’s fingers wrap around the back of her neck.

“Do I have to feed you?” There’s that edge in his voice again. She doesn’t want him to but if she spills on herself he will insist on giving her a bath. The thought of his hands inevitably growing bolder, rubbing and squeezing until she’s wet enough to take him, makes her sick.

“Please, Ivar.” Ylva whispers. In an instant, his hand is clutching hers.

“Hush now,” Ivar coos “everything will be fine.” He prepares another spoonful for her and Ylva’s jaws fall open. She chews slowly under his watchful gaze, then opens her mouth again to show that she’s swallowed. Ivar hums his approval.

“You’ve lost so much weight, krútt mitt, you must eat.” He says while lifting the spoon again. Once every last drop of stew is gone, Ivar holds a cup to her lips. Ylva drinks the mead in slow sips. It’s tempting to gulp it down, to numb her senses. She chases the thought away by reminding herself why this happened. Tears well up at the memory of Agmundr holding her back while Ivar took their son away. It was all her fault. She doesn’t deserve to numb herself. Ivar huffs, his calloused thumb wiping away her tears. One of the servants must have snuck up on them because suddenly someone speaks next to her. Ylva twitches, the mead running down her chin. Pouring from the cup and onto her lap. Ivar curses. Oh no. She stares at the dark spots on her red dress, the first dress Ivar gave her. Oh no. Her breathing grows shallow. She hears him snap at the thrall, ordering the girl to prepare a bath. Ylva claps a hand over her mouth to muffle the sobs.

“Ssssh, little wolf,” He whispers “They can clean the dress. I know it’s your favourite.” She wants to scream at him that she hates the dress, that she only wears it because he makes her. As if forcing her to put it on every day could erase what he did. What she let him do.

 

She sinks into the water. Wrapping her arms around her, Ylva can feel every rib protruding. When her period disappeared again she was terrified that somehow she’d gotten pregnant again, even with all of Ivar’s precautions. Realizing that it was just her body adjusting to the lack of nutrition was a much more pleasant alternative. Ivar finishes rinsing her hair and, just like expected, his hands slide further down to tug at her nipples. Ylva squirms in an automatic attempt to get away but Ivar doesn’t let that bother him. Once they’ve turned into hard peaks under his incessant fingers, Ivar cups her breasts and squeezes tightly. Not long after that, one thick finger explores her folds. Ylva bites her tongue to stop herself from sobbing as Ivar’s finger invades her. He’s panting, wrist moving quicker and quicker. Ylva focuses on the sounds of water splashing around them. Ivar pulls back suddenly, grunting for her to get out of the tub. He doesn’t have to tell her to get on the bed. This is a well-rehearsed routine by now. Having dried up, Ylva lies on her back and waits for him to crawl on top. Ivar studies her body critically as he drags himself further up, shaking his head at the way every bone stands out. She can tell that he’s waiting for her to take the initiative, he tries that every once in a while. Her inner voice urges her arms to move, to just caress his cheek. Anything. But she can’t stand to touch him. Ivar grows tired of waiting, a shadow falling over his face.

“Why aren’t you better yet?” He asks.  _ Because I don’t want to _ .

“I don’t know.” Ylva answers.

“Wife, I need you to actually try-” Ivar begins in a sharp voice only for her to interrupt.

“Wait.” She says. Ylva turns on her side, then motions for Ivar to get behind her. It will be better like this. Now she won’t have to see his face. Ivar of course takes it as a good sign, remembering that time so long ago when she’d told him that this makes her feel safe. He’s moving behind her and Ylva wills herself to relax as his arms trap her against his chest. His tip begins to press against her entrance. Ivar moves slowly, letting out a long moan as he sheathes himself inside of her. With the first thrust of his hips, Ylva’s eyes squeeze shut to hold the tears back.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: nothing special for this chapter I think. The usual angst. Ivar is a shitty husband.

Ylva never knows how to feel about Ivar leaving on raids. On the one hand, she is relieved that he thinks her too frail to come with him nowadays. It means a moment of peace, away from his demanding hands and words that somehow are both sweet and sharp at the same time. On the other, their bed feels so cold that she might as well go and lie down in the snow. The chill makes her think of their son. With him alive, she’d never have to feel alone. If she closes her eyes she can see him, picturing Ivar kissing the boy goodbye before getting in the boat. He’d curl up next to her in bed so that she could tell him stories about the gods, brown curls constantly falling into his eyes. Hildur and Helga would spoil him rotten. How old would he have been now? The days started feeling blurred long ago but it must have been at least two years. Ivar’s voice breaks her trance. He is speaking to her personal thralls, reminding them yet again of the routines they are to follow.

“Make sure that she continues eating in my absence. Brush her hair but do not cut it, or I will have you whipped.” Ivar turns his attention to her, leaning down to run his nose along her hairline.

“I will come home, wife.” She gives him a hasty kiss. It clearly isn’t enough to satisfy him because he stops her retreat with a heavy hand on her shoulder, then pries her lips apart with his tongue. A part of her wants to just stand there, unresponsive, but that will only make it last longer. So Ylva does her best to feign enthusiasm until Ivar breaks away.

“I’ll bring you back something pretty,” He croons “as a treat.”

 

The rain turns the streets into mud, makes its way inside the great hall through every little crack, and soaks her clothes whenever her duties as queen forces her to leave her chambers. It feels as if it will never stop. The younger thrall is fervently tending to the fire in Ylva’s room, adding log after log to heat up the furs hanging next to it. Ylva keeps her back turned to the girl as she changes into a nightdress. She wants to apologize for failing to stop the girl from being beaten by one of Ivar’s men yesterday but the words stick in her throat. It’s too late to do anything about it now.

“What’s your name?” The girl spins around, bowing her head.

“Talia, my queen.” She answers. Ylva keeps her gaze on the floor, avoiding the marks covering the girl’s face and neck.

“Talia, you will stay here tonight. In my bed.” Even from across the room, Ylva can hear Talia inhale sharply. She gets up from the chair and walks to the bed.

“I won’t touch you. I just-” The queen sighs “-It is cold and moist in here and the slave quarters must be ten times worse. You will be more comfortable here and safe from- from the weather.” She sees Talia wringing her hands. Then the girl bows her head again.

“Thank you.” She takes the furs in her arms and brings them to the bed, making sure that both of them are tucked in properly.

“Would you like to hear a story? About our gods?” Ylva asks. There’s a long silence, and Talia shifts under the furs.

“Yes, my queen.” She finally answers. It takes all of Ylva’s strength not to reach across the bed and pull the girl closer. She sniffles a little as she turns on her back.

“Good. And call me Ylva.”

 

Ylva wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The fish she had for dinner didn’t agree with her stomach and so she’s spent a long moment hunched over behind the great hall. She almost thinks she's sick, tries to convince herself that that is the case. But she recognizes the symptoms. It shouldn't be possible, Ivar is usually very careful about where he finishes. Still, her monthly blood has disappeared again and the dresses no longer hang as loosely as they used to. The boy wouldn’t let her have fish either. She straightens her back, leaning against the wall. Both hands cup her stomach. Little one, I wish I could say we have been longing for you. She knows she will have to try and get rid of it before Ivar comes back. The thought is enough to make tears well up. A small and pathetic voice whispers a suggestion from the back of her head: Perhaps I could convince him to let me carry it to term and see if it is healthy? She immediately dismisses that idea, knowing that he would never agree. Her fingers tremble as she trace around where the swell would show. I am so sorry, little one.

“My queen?” A timid voice asks. Ylva jumps, head snapping up to see who she has been caught by. Talia is worrying at the edges of her apron, the older thrall staring from right behind her. The older one says something in a foreign tongue and Talia steps aside. The woman steps forward. Her eyes slide down Ylva’s body, landing on her stomach and the hands still resting on it. She clicks her tongue and Ylva feels herself begin to shrink.

“Are you sick?” Talia pipes up. The older one speaks in broken Norse before the queen has a chance to answer.

“She’s with child.” Ylva's eyes squeeze shut. She sinks to her knees in the mud, arms tightening around her midsection as she begins to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: More angst, depiction of neurodegenerative disease, more abusive relationships, implied character death, dub-con sex scene, non-graphic violence, major character death

It is a long hike to Floki and Helga’s farm. Ylva has to stop several times to rest, Talia and Anselma offering her water. They hear it before they see it; children laughing while a woman’s voice urges them to be careful. Emerging from the forest, Ylva sees a familiar blonde inspecting a corner of the garden.

“Hello, Margrethe.” Ylva says. The blonde jumps to her feet and turns. She doesn’t say anything, only stares. The queen has to break the silence.

“Is Ubbe home?” Margrethe hesitates, then nods.

 

Ubbe fills Ylva’s cup again and slides it across the table. She takes a sip, looking everywhere except at him.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks. She sniffles, mumbling out a barely audible ‘mhm'. Ubbe opens his mouth, about to speak again, but the door opens and Tanaruz steps inside. She pauses when discovering their guest.

“Hello,” Ylva tries to smile at the girl “How is Helga today?” Tanaruz wipes her hands on the apron, lips pursed.

“She’s had worse days than this but-” the girl sighs “-I doubt she will remember you. She thinks Floki is out hunting.”

“I would still like to see her.” Tanaruz is the first one to step inside the small room. She sits down on the bed and reaches for Helga’s hand that’s poking out from underneath a pile of furs.

“We have a visitor.” She gestures for Ylva to come closer. Distant eyes framed by wrinkles and grey curls peer up at Ylva. Tanaruz moves out of the way, allowing the queen to sit down on the bed.

“My name is Ylva. I am Ivar’s wife.” Deep lines appear on Helga’s forehead.

“Ivar has a wife? He hasn’t told me that.” Ylva shrugs her shoulders as if to say ‘typical men’. Helga’s next question comes quickly, catching her off guard.

“Do you have any children?”

“Not yet, no,” She finally answers, forcing herself to meet Helga’s gaze “He is on a raid at the moment and I thought I should introduce myself.” The woman’s eyes light up with empathy.

“It must be lonely for you. Husband gone and no babe to care for.” Ylva blinks rapidly to chase away the tears.

“It is.” She admits. Helga takes Ylva’s hand, squeezing it.

”You are welcome here whenever you want some company,” A smile lights up her face “Oh, and you should come some time when Floki is home. He would love to meet Ivar’s woman.” Ylva can hear Tanaruz muffle a sob at the mention of the old boatbuilder but Helga doesn’t seem to notice. Ylva returns the smile as best as she can.

“I’d like that.”

 

Ivar’s feet drag across the wooden boards as he closes in on Ylva. He flashes a grin and ducks his head down to kiss her knuckles, pulling her arm out from underneath the cloak. Then he freezes. She has to take a step forward to keep her balance as he towers above her and tugs at her wrist.

“What is this?” He demands, staring at the blue fabric of her dress.

“It is being mended, husband.” Ylva hesitates at the last word but she manages to get it out. His grip instantly softens and he scoffs something about how the thralls had better make proper stitches. She offers up what she hopes is a calming smile, then leads the way into the great hall.

 

Ivar huffs as he settles behind her to comb through her wet hair.

“It is so loose.” He complains while tugging at one of the sleeves of the new dress. 

“I asked them to make it bigger. Have something to grow into.” Ylva says softly. Her words give Ivar pause. He reaches around her, one hand palming tentatively at her thigh. When she meets his gaze, he’s beaming.

“You have gained weight again.”

“I have-” She cranes her neck to press a kiss to his temple “-now hurry up and cut my hair, husband.” Afterwards, she undresses and lies down in bed. Ylva knows that Ivar takes it as another good sign when she rolls onto her stomach and says that he should join her. She peeks at him over her shoulder as he undresses and drags himself on top of her.

“Sweet wife.” He husks into her ear. Ylva reaches back to feel at the back of his neck. Ivar begins to ease his way inside of her and for the first time in years she doesn’t try to pretend it isn’t happening. The moans are genuine this time, as are her pleas for more. It doesn’t take long before Ivar has to pull out so that he can spill at the small of her back, what with him having been gone for almost two months. His fingers disappear between her legs, working there until she stiffens and cries out. Ylva turns on her side then pulls a fur up and crosses her arms over her stomach while Ivar presses against her back.

“I missed this.” He says, running his nose along her earlobe.

“Me too.” Ylva answers quietly. It is an honest answer.

“I knew it,” Ylva can practically hear the smile that must be spreading on his face “you’re coming back to me, varg.” She starts to close her eyes but then Ivar grabs her, turning her to face him. He crashes his lips onto Ylva’s and she tries to keep up with the fervent movements. When they pull apart, Ivar looks almost delirious.

“You belong here,” He says and Ylva is tempted to nod in agreement until she hears the rest of the sentence “not with the memories of a baby that you never even knew.” She flinches but Ivar is too far gone in his excitement to notice. He cups her face in his hands. She nuzzles at his palm, memorizing the feeling of every callus.

“You belong with me and I will always bring you back.” Ivar adds. When he finally lets go of her, she remains still. He says something about having a brought back a gift from the raid. Ylva keeps her eyes on his back as he searches through the pile of discarded clothes. She reaches one hand under the mattress, digging around until she comes across the wooden handle. Ivar chuckles as Ylva’s legs wrap around his waist from behind.

“Wife-” His sentence is cut short as Talia’s blade sinks into his throat. 

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter. I'm just gonna go hide in a corner after this.
> 
> WARNINGS: Murder, semi-graphic violence, blood, major character death, some more violence (milder this time), implied sexual abuse, murder threat, miscarriage, graphic depiction of drowning, suicide.

Ylva regrets it immediately but she knows that there is nothing she can do to help him; killing the men that hurt her taught her enough about the weak spots of the human body that she knows this is fatal. He spasms in her arms. She cranes her neck to whisper in his ear.

“I have to leave, Ivar.” An odd gurgling sound leaves him, making her heart clench.

“I didn’t want to do this, I promise-” She kisses his cheek “-but you would never stop searching for me.” Ylva stays wrapped around him, whispering over and over how much she loves him until he goes slack in her arms. It takes her quite some time to rearrange his body but finally he’s resting on his back in the middle of the bed. His face is wet with tears and she wipes them away with the sleeve of her discarded dress. She tries to clean up the blood too only to retch when one finger slips into the wound. Ylva eases his pants back on, ties them together, and pulls a fur up to his navel. She won’t let them see him exposed. Lying down next to him, Ylva undoes the single plait in his hair and sets to combing it out with her fingers. Her movements are sluggish. Ylva sniffles, she's so tired. He is still warm, she can feel it with the tips of her fingers. Her legs intertwine with his like they’ve done so many times before and she rests her head on his chest. 

 

Some time later, she's awoken by a knock on the door. The blood has dried on her arms and she absentmindedly scratches at it as she blinks away the fog. Leaning down, she gives Ivar one last kiss.

“I have to go now.” She slips out of bed and goes to let Ubbe inside. Ubbe’s stone face cracks when he sees the blood on her bare skin. He lifts his gaze to look past her and before she knows it he’s grabbed her by the arm and forced her back inside the bedroom. The door slams shut behind them.

“What did you do?” He snarls in her face.

“Don’t touch me.” Ylva mutters, trying and failing to get free. He backs her into a corner.

“This,” He uses his free hand to point at the corpse “was not part of the plan.” Being pressed against a wall, naked as she is, brings back unpleasant memories and Ylva’s breathing grows shallow.

“I didn’t want to do it.” She whispers. Ubbe’s fist slams into the wall, inches away from her head.

“Then why did you?!” She covers herself as best as she can with her arms.

“He would have found me. He would kill this baby too.” Ubbe lets her slump to the floor and from behind a curtain of hair, she sees him walk to the bed.

 

She’s not sure how she got to the boat, only knows that Ubbe forced a nightgown over her head, wrapped a cloak around her and pressed something in her palm before they snuck out of the great hall. Talia and Anselma help her into the boat while Tanaruz loads the last of the food. Ylva opens her palm to look at the small object that Ubbe gave her. A silver ring, with intricate patterns that she begins to trace.

“Ubbe, what is this?” He scoffs in response.

“It’s the gift Ivar brought home for you.” Ylva nearly throws it in the water. But she can’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she clutches it even tighter and curls up under the cloak until she sits with her forehead pressed to her knees. Tanaruz announces that she is is done, taking a step back from the boat. Ylva lifts her head to croak a ‘thank you’ only to find Ubbe towering over her.

“You took my brother from me. Remember that.” Ylva tries to look away but it is as if he’s holding her in place just with his stare.

“Enough, Ubbe.” Tanaruz mutters. Ubbe pays her no mind. He crouches next to the boat, one hand gripping at the rail.

“If you ever set foot in Kattegatt again,” He says slowly “I will kill you.”

“Enough!” Tanaruz snaps, grabbing onto his shirt and tugging. She’s not strong enough to make him move but she at least manages to break his concentration. Ubbe rises to his full height again and stomps past the young woman, heading back to his farm. Tanaruz leans down and rests one palm at Ylva’s shoulder.

“I will come find you someday. After Helga is…” Her voice trails off. Ylva doesn’t speak, only nods in affirmation. Tanaruz presses a quick kiss to her cheek and Ylva murmurs ‘thank you’ between sniffles. Then the girl is gone, disappearing among the trees.

 

It is too soon, Ylva knows that. But that doesn’t stop the contractions. Talia comes running when she hears the screams. The girl is surprisingly quick to react, seeing as Anselma isn’t there to help. She gently guides Ylva into position, all the while speaking words of encouragement. Talia performs admirably; even when Ylva screams that it is too soon, even when it becomes apparent for the inexperienced girl that something is indeed wrong. It is almost over by the time Anselma returns to the cabin. She barely has time to cross the room and kneel beside Ylva before the baby is resting in Talia’s grip. Ylva is teetering on the edge  to unconsciousness. She clings to Anselma in order to not pass out, waiting for Talia to clean up the baby and give it back. It never crosses her mind that the room is too quiet. It takes an eternity but finally Talia returns with a bundle that she places in Ylva’s arms. It’s a girl. Tiny, and beautiful, and completely still.

“Wake up, hjartað mitt. Wake up.” Ylva murmurs against the cold skin of her baby’s cheek. She tries to tug at the front of her dress but finds that it is difficult with her arms so occupied.

“Anselma, help me. I have to feed her.”

“Ylva-” The older woman starts but Ylva doesn’t hear it.

“It’s time to eat. Wake up, sleepy girl.” She continues speaking to the girl, laughing a little at what a tired baby she seems to be. Not even the sound of Talia crying makes her look up from the bundle. 

 

She never truly understood why Ivar was so afraid of water. Of course, she knows that what happened on his first trip to England played an important part in it. But to her, water has always been soothing. It reminds her of home, of her parents and of running at the beach with the other children. The crust cuts her feet, leaving trails of red as she makes her way out on the ice. It has been singing for a few days, the way it does every spring when it begins to crack. She sings too, to the bundle in her arms. It wasn’t difficult to find where Talia and Anselma had buried the girl; the ground was too frozen for them to dig deep. The ice breaks beneath her feet and cold water surrounds her. The red dress twists around her legs, pulling her further down. Ylva’s eyes are closed but she thinks she is still holding the bundle; it is hard to tell with her arms rapidly going numb. She inhales, water filling her lungs and making them burn. Above the surface Talia is screaming her lungs out as she lies on her stomach, staring into the hole where the former queen disappeared. Ylva gradually loses her vision but it doesn’t frighten her; she’s wanted this for so long. Everything slows down then stops completely. Ylva was many things in her life: farmer’s daughter and settler, then prisoner and slave, a free woman and a vengeful warrior. Wife, mother and queen. Now she is at peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry for this.


End file.
